Scars
by AetheriumDreams
Summary: What they have in common is etched on their faces, and their hearts. Fem!ShepXGarrus, set after the events of ME2. A oneshot; my first ME fic ever. Rated T for mention of that en-route-to-Omega-4-thingy. You know.


"I've been thinking."

Those three words cause Shepard to turn her head in Garrus's direction. By now she has come to associate the triad with her other half's anxiety; every time he's feeling nervous, every time there's an awkward thought that has to be put into speech, those words are the spearhead.

"Let's hope you have," she jokes, trying to alleviate the tension. "Most intelligent, sentient beings do now and then."

This elicits a metallic chuckle from the Turian and he clasps both hands behind his back, staring out at the void of space, where stars and galaxies and millions of undiscovered possibilities drift in a sea of blackness. "Look at you, trying to cheer me up when I should be the one helping you with _your _problems."

"I don't need anything from you but _this_," Shepard says firmly, touching one armor-plated shoulder. The metal is cold and alien, much like Garrus himself, but he is much more than skin and species to her. "Us. As long as I have this, I don't care what the universe throws at me. Collectors, Reapers, an army of rabid Thresher Maws even… we can take them down. Together."

"But…" Shepard raises an eyebrow and Garrus pauses, not getting past the first word. They've already had discussions about the _b_ word and how it does not fit into their conversations.

"It's just… I don't know. I want this to work… I _really _want this to work…" Garrus sighs. "But let's face it, having a relationship with me is like mixing mercury in your coffee. I don't want anything _bad_ to happen… you know how toxic Turians are to humans as far as—"

"And I'm prepared to deal with that," Shepard reassures him. "That's why we have Mordin. So we can mooch all the medications we need, whenever. Don't think I'm about to be scared off by a simple biological risk. Believe me, Mordin didn't spare me the gruesome details before we… you know."

"He didn't?" There is a faint trace of alarm in Garrus's voice, but Shepard's steely expression chases it away. "Oh. I see. Well then. Um… wow. That was, er, rather lacking in tact."

"I know." Shepard is smiling despite herself and steps closer to the Turian, eyes fixated on a far-off nebula. "I also know a way we could work around your little bout of paranoia."

"I'm all ears."

"I'm no psychologist, but I'm not about to call Kelly in to help out. That would be… well, it just wouldn't work. I thought maybe if we came up with a list of all the things we have in common, it would overshadow our differences. Make things a bit… easier."

Garrus tilts his head and Shepard cannot help thinking of a cat doing the same thing. "Overshadowing isn't the same as eradicating," he says softly. "And besides, what's the point? What _do_ we have in common? You're human, I'm Turian. You were a SPECTRE, I was in C-Sec. You were a great leader, I was an arrogant loudmouth. Then… you were _dead_, and I was living a mercenary's life. Sure, you came back and we took out the Collectors, but really, Shepard. How am I supposed to be there for you when I'm hardly the kind of person—when I'm not nearly as _strong_ as you are?"

Shepard's mouth forms a flat line and her eyes take on a gray, overcast hue. She thinks for a moment, then another, and finally exhales, bringing one hand up to rest against the side of her face. "I…" she begins, her voice faltering. Then her eyes brighten and she traces the jagged lines on her cheek with her fingertips, as if she has just made some monumental discovery. She takes one of Garrus's hands and places it where hers just was, so he can feel the harsh lines that are etched across her skin. Her own hand comes up and runs along the ruined half of his face, and a shiver that he cannot deny runs down his spine. It is like an epiphany from on high, as if they have reached some sort of impossible understanding. _We're both wounded, in a way… connected by our fault lines._

"You once told me you didn't think I'd fancy a man with scars," Shepard says in a low voice. "Well, let me tell you something. This woman has enough scars to make any Krogan envious."

"Do I weary you, Shepard? I certainly do second-guess a lot."

"Weary me? Please." Shepard's eyes meet his. "Being dead pretty much threw my definition of 'weary' out the airlock. You're doing just fine." She remembers how he berated himself for the loss of his team, how he hunted Sidonis for vengeance and nearly lost himself in the pursuit, how he had looked at her after she exposed the truth behind Sidonis's betrayal. She had seen him ache then; had seen him nearly break. She could never despise him for expressing what he feels.

"Thanks for putting up with me," Garrus murmurs, and they touch foreheads, and he runs one hand over the shorn bristle of her dark hair. It will never grow back, thanks to the Lazarus Project; another mark leftover from cheating death. _But Turians don't particularly have a thing for hair anyway._ "I'm hoping we can sustain this for a very, very long time. I mean that."

"I know you do. And don't worry. Remember, you're the one with reach."

"And you're the one with flexibility," Garrus finishes, wondering how that awful blunder on his part could have possibly turned into their own private joke. But Shepard finds it funny, so he's not ashamed.

"Exactly," Shepard purrs, smiling as the Turian's hands run down her back, over the smooth fabric of her uniform. "As long as you keep reaching, I'll always find a way around anything that stands in our way. I promise."

"I'll hold you to it," Garrus replies, embracing her, and for a few short moments, life is perfect.

He knows Shepard always keeps her promises.


End file.
